Love and Darkness
by VictorianChik
Summary: Post-Season 2, Ep. 1 Spoilers. Alone in the dark, Ward thinks about Skye. Warning: violence and angst and some suggested sexuality


Solitary wasn't the problem. Ward had spent all those days, years ago, in the woods and found things to do, actions to take to pass the time. Darkness wasn't a big deal. He could work in the dark, feel in the dark, even create shapes out of the smallest sounds in the dark. Nothing to do wasn't such a huge burden either; he liked the rest time between jobs to readjust and concentrate.

But all three at once was maddening – alone in the dark with nothing to do.

The suicide attempts had helped for a while. He wasn't sure if he wanted to die or wanted to do something so drastic that she would come see him or if he just wanted something to do. But the moment his fingers had felt that button on his pants, he had a clear option to make.

He spent the next day preparing the small plastic button. Holding it carefully, he had scrapped it along the floor, a thousand times on one side and then a thousand times on the other, and then repeat. The movement had worn his fingertips bloody, but the small button got sharper and sharper.

He had rushed the suicide attempt, though. The lights had come on for a feeding, and the guards had found him there on the floor, his right hand smeared with blood from worn-away skin and the sharp button in the other hand. The guards had charged at him, and in nine seconds Ward had rolled over on the floor with his back towards them and slashed at his left wrist hard. By the time they pulled him up, three inches of torn flesh were spilling a torrent of blood down his prison uniform.

Suicide attempt two was after stitches, tons of drugs, and feedings through tubes while he lay there helpless. He had happened to reach under his pillow and feel the paper tag sewn into the lining. The despair had been more serious that time. Even after nearly bleeding out, no one had come to his cell. Not Coulson or May or Hill and especially not _her_.

He had worked tirelessly over the paper, folding it, dampening the edges with his own spit, and then leaving it to dry even harder. Four feedings later, it was deadly sharp. He had tucked it in his waistband when they fed him, and that last time he smiled as he opened his mouth to suck down whatever liquidized food pack they brought in. The feedings were the same as the washing – he remained docile and obedient while one guard worked and the other two stood by, one with a tazer and one with a gun.

Early in his isolation and craziness, Ward had tried to fight them, to see if he could get shot. But all three times had ended with him shaking on the ground after being tazed, and though he had screamed for them to shoot him, they had not complied.

The guards never spoke to him – not if he were talking, yelling, swearing, crying, or begging. They worked quickly and left, always turning out the lights.

He deserved it. Hell, he probably deserved an electric chair. He was a serial killer, just like she had said.

He had repeated her words as he dug the sharp paper into his other wrist.

"You're a serial killer, you're a serial killer, a serial killer!"

He had taken his time, enjoying the agony as he felt the blood pulse out again. His blood so badly wanted to escape his body just like he wanted to escape his body, escape himself, get out and leave for good.

But the doctors must have put a monitor on him after the first attempt because the lights flared on and the guards came in with the doctors. Ward had cried and begged for them to let him die while they numbed his body and stitched him up.

"Even Hydra froze the Winter Soldier when they weren't using him!" he had screamed. "Just freeze me. Kill me! Hurt me! _Don't put me back in the dark_."

Coulson had appeared at one time. Ward had been nothing but compliant, offering to give up any intel, answer any questions as long as he got to see her. Coulson left, his words lingering in the cell, "It's seems you finally got what you deserved. Enjoy the dark."

Ward didn't even plan the next suicide attempt. Convinced he was already dead and in hell, he ran into the walls, into the electronic wall, banging his head hard. Alarms had rang out, but he had charged again until his world was a kaleidoscope of bright colors and pain. It reminded him of being a child and spinning around until he was dizzy and falling on the floor to watch the room twirl around, except now there were jagged edges of agony in an upside-down world.

Sedation had followed with more stitches, and he went back to the room and the darkness.

Then she had appeared.

Years of condition had helped him school his face, slow his reactions, look aloof rather than frantic.

She was angry at him, yes, but an angry Skye was a million times better than no Skye at all. She pretended not to care about his injuries, but he had seen the way her eyes slid down him, looking for markers of abuse.

He tried to sound gentle, non-threatening, calm – anything to make her stay. And she had stayed for a few glorious moments.

When she was gone, the ache in his chest throbbed so badly he lay down and shut his eyes before the dimming lights could close him in darkness. This must be what love felt like.

He had never felt anything like it.

It was almost as awful as it was wonderful. Kind of like drowning and flying at the same time. A throb of euphoria that edged him closer and closer to hysteria.

He had read about love before, in all those stupid high school books; he had seen it on the screen and he had half-smiled at such nonsense. The world wasn't about love. Sex he could understand because that was carnal and physical. Lust was fine too – desiring something and then getting it. The way he and May had been, rutting against each other in the dark, using each other to silence loneness and empty nights. Once they both achieved satisfaction, they had rolled off each other, preferring not to touch and talk much. Their sex making was like a workout, no feelings involved.

But Skye – sex with her would be different, almost a sacred act of worship, very nearly taboo because wanting physical fornication didn't begin to come close to how Ward felt about her.

His fantasy of her might be part of the usual guy things – her slowly stripping off her clothes, her kissing him, her beautifully naked on a bed. But the most powerful image was that of a normal day after a mission, after dinner, in the early twilight of the evening, alone on the bus. He would be sitting there, just hanging out, and she would come in.

She would smile at him and come close, catching his hand, not noticing the scars there. And then she would sit on his lap, leaning against his chest with her knees pulled up. He would be able to smell her hair and wrap his arms around the whole of her.

They might kiss, they might talk, they might sit in silence. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through her hair. With a mischievous smile, she once would pinch him on the side so that he jumped and he would respond by tickling her sides until she squirmed and giggled for him to stop. She would have nowhere to be, nowhere to go, no wish other than to stay with him forever. When she would get tired, he would lift her up and carry her to bed, ignoring protests that it was too early or she was too heavy.

Just the two of them and love so powerful they wanted to crawl in each others' bodies and share souls.

Alone in the dark, Ward kept his eyes shut. As long as they were shut, he could pretend that the lights were slowly coming on. The lights were brightening and she was coming down the stairs. Any second now he would hear footsteps.

She was coming for him. With love this powerful, she wouldn't leave him to rot in the darkness.

She would come for him.

Ward relaxed, willing sleep to hasten. Perhaps he would find her in his dreams, chasing his love through the darkness, the only light in his world of blackness and despair.


End file.
